When Everything Is Blue(65)

“Good luck.” I pinch his ass for a little extra, and he yelps and swats at me.

The next morning between classes, I watch on my phone as Chris makes his transcontinental flight, arriving safely in California by midafternoon. He sends me text updates about his great coming-out weekend. Apparently his mom hinted to his dad at what was going on, so his dad was prepared with some celebratory festivities, including a fancy dinner at Chris’s favorite restaurant and night out at a gay nightclub owned by a client of his dad.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but even more than that I’m glad Chris and his dad have the kind of relationship where coming out only brings them closer. That’s pretty damn special. Even though I’ve envied Chris’s blessed life over the years, I want only the best for him. He deserves it.

On Sunday night it’s gotten pretty late at the BOA. Most of the skate rats have all gone home for the night, and it’s just me and a couple of other guys. Word has spread that I’m entering Plan Z, and like Chris, everyone has an opinion on which tricks are my best and which ones need work. Dave is there, too, but he hasn’t tried talking to me since the incident. There was another scandal at Sabal Palm High, a tryst between an assistant coach and a senior. What’s in Wooten’s mouth has faded a bit.

I’m taking a break between sets when Dave approaches me. I briefly consider getting on my skateboard and jetting home or else going in for another round, but I decide instead to stand my ground and face him once and for all, even better since Chris isn’t here. Dave’s been giving me puppy-dog looks in the hallway and joining in the chorus of supporters when I’m skating. I know he wants to make up.

“I heard you’re going to compete in Plan Z,” Dave says, keeping a couple feet of distance between us. Like a shamed dog, he also won’t make eye contact.

“Yup.”

“You’re going to murder it.”

I shrug. The silence is deafening.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You read my note?”

“No.” I ended up burning it, which is way better than sticking pins in it. In any case, I found it to be therapeutic.

“I fucked up, Theo.”

I nod, unable to find it in me to accept his apology. There’s a wall about ten feet high between us, with razor wire, and I can’t scale it.

“Can you kick my ass to make me feel better?” Dave asks.

I’m not built that way. All the anger and frustration I felt toward Dave has morphed into this tough little nut of bitterness, candy-coated with regret. When I think about what he did, I feel sick and weak and betrayed, so I try not to think about it at all. “What you did was so uncool, Dave. I don’t even have the words for it. And I know a lot of words.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“No one deserves that.”

“I’m sorry, Theo. I was getting some things off my chest to one of the guys, and your name slipped out. He didn’t believe we were hooking up, so I sent him that picture. I was stupid. And an asshole. Everything you ever said about me is true.”

I don’t like how he’s making me out to be the asshole, like all he could do was live up to my expectations. Besides, that was before I even knew him.

“You played me twice,” I tell him. “First in taking that picture without me knowing, and then in sending it around.”

“If I could take it back, I would. I swear.”

For a moment there’s nothing between us but the sticky sounds of wheels on pavement. I wish I could forgive him—I really do—but he totally screwed me over, and just like some things can’t be unseen, some deeds can’t be undone. Whenever I look back on how I came out, I’ll think of that goddamned picture and how Dave stole it from me, like that scene in Indiana Jones where the guy gets his heart ripped out and the ripper presents it to the crowd like it’s some kind of prize. I was a trophy for Dave. Whether or not it was his intention, that’s how it feels.

“I thought we could be friends,” I say to Dave. “I wanted to, but now when you’re around, I just feel….” I search for the word. “Unsafe.”

Dave nods, and I glance over at him, feeling that familiar tug inside me. In a way it’d be so much easier to forgive him. I really did like hanging out with him…. But he’s not trustworthy, and I’ll never risk getting played by him again.

“I just wanted to tell you to your face I’m sorry,” he says.

I’m afraid to say anything that will give the impression he’s allowed back into my life, so I just stand there in a fortress of silence.

Dave sighs. “Good luck at Plan Z. I’ll be cheering for you.”

I watch him walk away, feeling massive amounts of emptiness and regret—for the friendship we lost and the one we could have had.

Goddamned Asshole Dave.




CHRIS MAKES me train that whole week at the skate park. He even wears a whistle, tube socks, and a headband to keep the sweat off his forehead. He means for it to be funny, and it works. He looks so ridiculous that I can’t even get mad at him when he pushes me to work harder or land a trick with more finesse, or when I bust my ass, to get back up.

There are a lot of shorties at the skate park who want to learn my tricks, so we take some time each afternoon giving them pointers. Needless to say, we have a sort of following by the end of the week. Chris talks me up, telling the kids to come out on Saturday for the competition and cheer for me. I can’t believe it, though, when we show up on Saturday morning and there’s a crowd of middle schoolers all chanting my name. Ryanne is with us, and she gushes over how adorable it all is, and Chris ruffles my hair. We already registered online by sending in Chris’s video of me skating, so all I have to do is show my ID and get a number. There are a few members of Plan Z’s pro team already testing the concrete—T-Bo Hendrix, Austin Schriller, and Havi Martinez. Seeing them shred gets my gut doing a spin cycle, and I remember to breathe deeply and concentrate on the steady sound of my wheels on pavement as I warm up.